Iron-Clad

Washington County Fair, NY

I should  have been putting up the 40 pounds of tomatoes sitting on the counter or cleaning or writing or weeding or cleaning (did I mention cleaning?).  Instead, I was sitting on a courtesy cart on my way from the parking lot to the entrance of New York’s Washington County Fair.  The little imp that sits on my left shoulder is the queen of rationalization and had already come up with a couple of great excuses for the less-wayward imp that sits on my right shoulder (I don’t have any internal angels).   However, as luck would have it, our driver came up with the hum-dinger of all pretext for a day of play –  one I know I’ll use again and again.

Our main reason for going was to see the 4-H exhibits. None of us have any interest in those rides that involve leaving your stomach hovering 20 feet in the air over the rest of your body.  However, we all wanted to ride the ferris wheel – all of us, that is, except for Thing 2.  So, as we climbed onto the courtesy cart, he became the victim of an escalating ad campaign to get all of us onboard with the idea.  The lanky, slightly-older gentleman driving the cart noticed our five-year-old’s plight and took pity on him.

“Know why I don’t like ferris wheels?”  He asked.

Thing2 turned his face toward my stomach (his preferred debate technique).

The driver then told us of a draconian punishment he had endured at the age of nine and at the hands of a father he never saw again.  In somewhat vivid detail, he described how his parent pushed him from a precipice and how a hatred of heights sprang from that betrayal .  My hands moved to cover Thing2’s ears to filter out the story, but I was too slow, and I was to be happy about that by the end of the ride.

” I work with other kids like me,” he went on.  Before we had time to consider the courage it took to evolve from a cast-off to a champion of others caught in the cycle of neglect, he asked, “You know why I like working this job too?”  Thing2 was now listening intently, as were we all. “I like seeing people coming here enjoying their kids.  Not like the kids I work with.  Not like my parents.”  He pulled the cart to a stop in front of the ticket booth and smiled at Thing2 and at me and my husband.

Then, lightening the mood, he asked Thing2, “Know how cows have fun?”  Thing2 shook his head, no.  He grinned at all of us as we stepped out of the cart.  “They go to the moo-vies.”

We groaned and the kids laughed and we waved good-bye as we trotted up to the ticket booth.  Gone from my mind were the tomatoes and housework and writing and all the excuses I thought I needed to be here.  In the end, the only – the iron-clad – excuse that we needed or will ever need was that we wanted to enjoy our kids while we’re lucky enough to be able to do so.

Resolutions

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It’s been a good year so far. So far, I’ve stuck to my new daily writing plan pretty well, and it’s been it’s own reward. The weight loss resolution – it’s still in the back burner, but I’m hoping today’s addendum to Housekeeping resolution 106.b will help turn up the heat on it and my writing and illustration.

Virginia Woolf once wrote that a woman needed money and a room of her own to write (she obviously didn’t have kids when she wrote that or she’d be advocating for five minutes in the bathroom on her own just to think about writing the shopping list). This weekend as we begin to carve out space for the Big Guy’s workshop, I decided to pursue the room and carve a studio out of our laundry/storage/guest area (no, that photo isn’t my entry for ‘Hoarders’ – just my motivating before shot).

I’m great at rationalizing this plan – it’ll clear my crap out of other rooms, more light, same heating bill. But my private rationalization – one that the Big Guy (he’s cool) seems to understand without my saying it – is that, while I’ve spent the summer getting my feet wet, I finally decided to jump In and call myself an writer and illustrator, not because I think I’ll be the next Maurice Senkak or Shel Silverstein, but because I need to write and draw to feel complete. I know I’m not alone in this need, and, even if the laundry is still hanging in my studio by next weekend, the decision to take the plunge matters as much as the way it happens.

A Joyful Noise

We got the date wrong for the start of county fair and decided to head back to the farmer’s market in Cambridge behind Hubbard Hall.  The town center was humming with activity – there was the weekly market in back, craft demonstrations in front, and, inside, the last performance of Mozart’s Magic Flute was almost about to begin.

Every member of our family who could sit still for two hours had seen the production, and each of us eyed the stage door with longing.  In then end, my husband was the one to finagle a place to stand at the sold-out show, and I decided to drag Thing1 and Thing2 to the hardware store.  So I kissed the Big Guy goodbye and bid a temporary adieu to the little piece of paradise behind  the theatre.

We pulled out of the parking lot onto a quiet, residential village street lined with 18th century greek revival homes and community gardens.  It was a perfect August day  – not too hot and just enough puffy clouds to make you think you were in a Technicolor musical – minus the music.

I slowed down and pulled to the side to find something appropriately embarrassing to Thing1 on the iPod when I  heard singing.  At first I thought it was coming from behind us, but I knew there was an hour before the curtain went up.  I looked up from my search and noticed a tall, robust man striding down the sidewalk toward us.  The notes seemed to be coming from him.  He got closer, and we realized that he was indeed the seemingly unlikely source of the jubilant tones.

We smiled at him and he, continuing his scales, smiled back at us, and suddenly I recognized him as one of the opera’s cast members.  My own smile grew wider as I remembered the amazing performance Thing1 and I had seen the day before.  Both of us chuckled as we enjoyed our private performance and we waved and even yelled out the window to congratulate him on his success.

I’ve seen this man in other local performances, and he is not a professional actor, but he gives his audiences – and his art – world class effort dedication and results.  He was fearless waltzing down the sidewalk and singing.  As he channeled the beautiful day through his voice, he seemed to vanquish doubt of any kind.  Nowhere to be seen was any worry that he would not ‘make it’ in show biz or that he might not be perfect that afternoon.  All that mattered at that moment was the day and the song.

He offered this joyful noise to the world, and  we drove away savoring the gift of that moment.  But  three days later, I realized the song’s real gift was the talisman it became.  It is the reminder that there are somethings a peasant can enjoy just as much (if not more than) a king.  Most of all, however, this keepsake moment reminds me how many things we miss when we let fear decide that not being good enough is a reason not to try something new.

Make-do Salad

When I was a kid, my favorite side dish was my mom’s make-ahead salad.  Covered in mayo with apples and bacon, the only thing healthy abut this special-occasion recipe was the word salad in its name.  Then came the eighties and, with it, the nutrition and fitness craze (which I obviously avoided), and the parties were over.  At least, the ones with make-ahead salad were.

My parents – usually healthy eaters to begin with – joined the Fiber Festival and  began making healthier salads part of their routines.  They weren’t as good as my favorite the peas and lettuce mingled with bacon and mayonnaise, but the change did prime my taste buds (and my psyche) for a recipe I like to call Make-Do salad.

I used to think this recipe had its genesis in my garden – I make with whatever I do find that’s ready to pick.  Now, however, I realize that mine is one of millions of versions that all parents and people living near need (most people at some point in their lives) have created over centures.

I inherited the basics from my parents – both children of the depression – and honed it during layoffs, healthcare-induced cashecotmies, and new-parent panic attacks.  It’s probably pretty similar to yours, but I thought I’d share it.

 

Make Do Salad

(Serves as many as needed)

Ingedients

1 c. Patience

2/3 c.  This, too, shall pass

1 c. loyalty

1 healthy dose of skepticism

Season with salt, pepper, dash of sarcasm

(Optional ingedients)

3 c. lettuce

1 Zucchini or Summer Squash

2-3 tomatoes

Dressing

Dress with as much Humor as needed


Directions

Pick and rinse whatever you have in your garden.  Dice small portions to make them seem larger.  Toss. If you’re out of everything but lettuce, add more dressing.  (Calories – varies)

The veggies in this recipe may vary, but I think the most important ingredient is the dressing.  That is the one part of the recipe that each chef has to concoct on their own, and it has taken a long time to develop mine.  But when the salad days are short, it goes a long way toward stretching my resources and sanity.

What’s Opera Mom?

It was an uncommon day that started with a search for a collared shirt and ended with an even rarer affirmation of our philosophy that kids need art – even if they don’t always think they want it.

As expected all of his presentable shirts were dirty and in the hamper – an uncommon event in itself. We were too close to being late for me to be able to appreciate the enormity of the moment. And, knowing it would be dark in the theatre, I found him a clean T-shirt in what I hoped was a conservative gray with conservative blue emblazoned on it.

It was Saturday. Our weekly art quest was recovering from summer vacations and camps, but Hubbard Hall was there to rescue it for one of our kids with a full production of Mozart’s Magic Flute. Even at Hubbard Hall’s very reasonable prices, we decided risking a meltdown before intermission with Thing2 would be an expensive experiment in art appreciation. I, however, was determined to see the show and decided that Thing1 would be the perfect date (Dad and I solve the eternal babysitter conundrum by taking turns going to these shows).

As you can imagine, he was as excited as any twelve-year-old might be at the prospect of spending 2.5 hours of a sunny Saturday sitting in a darkened theatre listening to a 200-year-old show with his increasingly embarassing mother. Only the promise of lunch, a comfortable shirt, and a few hours away from what his younger brother’s version of hero worship helped him keep the anxiety in check. He’s always compliant, however, and he climbed the steps to the theatre, quietly tolerating the familiar chorus of “Someday you’ll thank us.”

We found a pair of seats just as the director walked out on the small stage for the opening announcements. Then the lights dimmed. The overture began. I knew Thing1 would quickly recognize Bugs Bunny music, but would it be enough to turn the tolerance to enthusaism? Again he blessed me with a tolerant smile when I mentioned it.

Then the overture ended. A prince fleeing a dragon ran on stage only to be saved by three ladies whose amorous attentions would make Pepe La Pew blush. I heard a chuckle next to me. The prince awake to discover a new friend dressed in a bird costume. The show progressed, and the chuckle turned to laughter.

Score one for the parents with a huge assist from community theater, I thought, and my smile had nothing to do with the play. For the next two hours we absorbed a near-ancient music, rife with humor and beauty. When it was over, we leapt to our feet with the rest of the audience. Without thinking, Thing1 turned to me and said, “That was really good. I’m glad I saw it.”

I know I’m lucky.  My kids enjoy a lot of the same art and music we like – groups like the Beatles and Rolling Stones, live theatre – which is a lot more fun (and easier) than leaving them home with a sitter.  But we’re still fighting the TV and video game conundrums every parent  faces.   Thing1, especially, has recently acquired the crazy idea that he should think for himself.  Getting him to embrace the concept of better living through listening to his parents’ more moth-eaten ideas about music and art is increasingly challenging.  Once in a while, though, we get something more than a tolerant smile.  I get a laugh or I see a spring in his step that says he appreciates our occasional cultural dictatorship – even if he won’t admit it to our faces.  And every once in a while it’s nice not to have to wait for someday for the gratitude.

All Art, All Weekend

Cartoons have been on a bit of a hiatus since our vacation, but this weekend promises to be all art, all weekend.  I’ve also begun working on illustrations for a children’s story based on our geese and hope to add peeks at that as it goes forward.

Getting back into drawing has been one of the great blessings of this writing workshop. The knowledge that Vermont and neighboring Washington County in New York State have been nurtured other homespun artists (Tasha Tudor and Grandma Moses to name two) would once have been daunting.  But the beauty of joining a community of truly talented writers, photographers, and poets is the discovery that being in their midst – and tracing the footsteps of others – is not intimidating; it’s inspiration that springs like hope escaping from Pandora’s box every time I open my pencil case.

Genie

UPDATE – Any local fans of the Hubbard Hall magic will be seeing the Genie on this year’s playbill.  Word on the street is this year’s roster is going to be a good one.  Check out the fall schedule and find season tickets here:  2012-2013 Season

Signed prints, matted to fit an 11 x 14 are available on archival paper for $20 + $3 shipping, with 10% of each purchase going to Hubbard Hall.  I can take checks or send a paypal invoice.  Email me at rachel@www.pickingmybattles.com for  more information. 

The original post is here:  The Hubbard Hall Effect

What I Get

She comes up to the sofa every hour or so, looking for a neck rub and a walk.  When she get’s outside, she’s off like a shot.  She’s never gone long.  She’ll visit the neighbor at the end of our 900 ft dirt driveway and then go a little further up the hill to say hello to another neighbor.  Then she comes back to sit in the shade of the flowers or the picnic table.

She doesn’t guard the house.  She watches for other animals, but she’s on the lookout for playmates.  She rarely worries about predators or chipmunk or deer, as  my garden can attest.  Her fur barely covers her skin, and yet she is a study in shedding.   When she wants attention or out, her whimpering would inspire the most whiny five-year-old to new depths.

But for all the mess, spectacular vet bills, and neediness, this little hound dog gives me much more in return – even things I hadn’t expected.  I knew she would be affectionate – whether or not dogs love is up to the experts to decide, but she is pretty convincing in her performance.  I knew, even lying quietly next to me while I work, she would give me companionship when the kids were in school – not a small thing when you’re in the middle of nowhere.  And she teaches me.

As I watch her endure my first-grader’s intense affection, she teaches me patience.  When he strokes her face and accidentally rubs her eye, she gives no sound of protest or reproach, and she teaches me tolerance.

And most of all, her jubilant quest to engage with the world – from the tiniest tree frog to our neighborhood bear (usually in play) – reminds me everyday that at least a little pluck is a prerequisite for true happiness.